In the Safety of the Dark
by Stella Ava
Summary: He feels her pressed against his back, the pieces shift and click into place, and he remembers everything: his father, the funeral, his actions, her words. And he wishes he could forget. Takes place during 2.13. Chuck has to go.


A/N: Wow. I haven't written anything in a really long time. Scratch that. I haven't written anything that I've let anyone _read_ in a really long time. But this would not let me rest, so I thought I'd share. I feel a little rusty, so I've been trying to write more. Anyway, this was inspired by the fact that upon my second (or hundredth) viewing of 2.13, I noticed Blair was covered in a blanket when she wakes up to that note. *sigh* Oh, Chuck. :(

*****

When he opens his eyes, the first thing that registers is pain, dull and throbbing, at the back of his skull. It is dark, save for the meager glow of city lights that shines through the curtained window, and for a moment an old familiar dread takes hold of him, that very human panic of _Where am I?_ and _How did I get here?_ It's a feeling that never fails to surprise him, despite the sheer multitude of times he's woken up just like this: with the taste of booze and bile at the back of his throat, a pounding in his brain, and a question mark swirling in the air. He hopes he never gets used to it.

His eyes scan the room as he searches the corridor of his mind, taking inventory. (_Who What When Where How?_) As if in answer, he notices a warm pressure at his waist and, lifting his head slightly to investigate, sees a small perfect hand resting there.

It's the only word he knows. It anchors him. _Blair_.

It all happens in the split second it takes to breathe her name: he feels her pressed against his back, the pieces shift and click into place, and he remembers everything. Everything. His father, the funeral, his actions, her words. And he wishes he could forget again.

He takes her hand and slowly lifts it away from him, willing her not to wake up. Just as cautiously, he sits up and swings his legs over the side. He notices that he still has his shoes on and tells himself that he never meant to stay in the first place. The thought doesn't bring him the comfort he thought it would. For a minute he merely sits there, his mind swimming and his body weak and shaky from the alcohol (or lack of). He hears her slow, steady breathing in the darkness at his back, but he doesn't want to look at her. He's not sure how he ended up here or when he decided it; it seemed his body carried him here to her of its own volition. He thinks that perhaps he just wanted to feel some peace, like the kind he'd only ever known with her, last fall, when he would lay with her in this bed. It seemed longer than a year ago. (Ages ago, a lifetime ago.) Or perhaps he just needed with someone who cared and wouldn't ask for anything return; someone who saw the bad, but wasn't afraid of it; someone who loved him anyway.

He remembers her words. _Because I love you_. And for a few unchecked moments something like hope swells inside him. _Maybe_. Maybe he could stay. Maybe she could kiss him and love him and collect the pieces of himself that he's left scattered in this room since the moment he met her. Maybe it could be enough.

He turns to look at her, finally, but there are no butterflies this time. In their wake they left a strange ache in the pit of his stomach and a debilitating tightness in his chest. This flood of feeling is not new (though he still isn't used to it), but it's never been this overwhelming. It presses hard against him and he has to close his eyes so that it doesn't split him at the seams. She's still there when he opens them, her head resting on her hand and looking for all the world like a porcelain doll. (So fucking beautiful.) And for a wild moment, he wants to wake her; wants to press his lips to hers, lift the silk of her dress, and bury himself between her thighs. He wants to hear her gasp his name and say those three words again, over and over, while he hides his face in the crook of her neck and breaks himself into pieces against her, spilling the poison that bubbles up inside him. Maybe it would be enough.

_Well, that's too bad._

He almost reaches for her, but he remembers that porcelain breaks. And he knows he'll break her because that is what he does. He will fuck this up. It's the only thing he's good at. (_I will disappoint you, too. I will drag you down with me_.) Instead, he forces himself to stand because if he continues staring at her he just might convince himself to stay, to crash and burn them both alive. He's unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the door, but he makes the mistake of allowing himself one last look and his gut twists with guilt and regret. So he walks to her desk and writes a note to her in blue ink on stationary that he vaguely recognizes, because while this is not the first time he's left a sleeping girl in the middle of the night, he never thought that she'd be one of them (never wanted her to be one of them), and he needs her to know why.

I'm sorry for everything.

(_For yesterday. For today. For tomorrow. For not being strong enough_.)

You deserve much better.

(_Someone who's worthy_.)

Don't come looking for me.

(_One day you'll understand_.)

He thinks about writing more (three words, eight letters) because now that he's leaving he wishes she knew, wishes he'd said them when he had the chance, wishes they could mark the beginning and not the end. But wishes don't change anything, and he signs his name instead. He leaves it on the pillow and grabs a blanket at the foot of the bed to cover her. Before he can stop himself, he bends to brush his lips against her forehead and the words tumble out anyway, into the safety of the dark. (_I love you_.)

He walks to the door again. This time he doesn't look back.


End file.
